


Talisman

by abrae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Pre-Slash, implied future relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grand-mère gives Sherlock one final gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talisman

Sherlock hates how small, how bony and fragile Grand-mère appears in her too-big bed. He hadn’t wanted to come at all, would rather have been peering into his microscope, wandering the woods, laying back on his bed and staring up at the ceiling - anything but be standing helplessly by as she drifts slowly into a sleep from which he knows she will not wake.

But she’s asked for him especially - _ma bichette_ \- and he’s never been able to say no to her in any case.

She reaches out her hand and he takes it in his own, too large for his as-yet gangly frame; her wrinkled, stained skin is softer than the finest silk, fingers twisted past the point of utility, tips fat, smooth, and flattened with age. Grand-mère’s grip is deceptively strong; she meets Sherlock’s reluctant gaze with her own azure eyes, gives a gentle tug and he steps close to the side of her bed.

"Sherlock," she says, her voice irreparably roughened with age and illness. He bites his lower lip, tears threatening to betray his façade of indifference. Without losing grasp of his hand, Grand-mère twists awkwardly to the side with a light grunt and takes a tissue-papered parcel from her bedside table, tied in one of the wide satin ribbons that Sherlock recognizes from birthdays and Christmases long since past. Then she falls back against the pillows with a sigh, dropping the gift on the billowy quilt in front of Sherlock, giving his hand a tight squeeze before she lets it go.

Sherlock picks it up, curious though he’d rather die than admit it; it’s lumpy, thick and soft. He pulls on the ribbon and the paper falls away to reveal

"A jumper."

Sherlock lets the paper and ribbon drift to the floor as he holds it up.  Cable-knit cashmere in a deep charcoal grey, collared in thick ribbing fastened with two wood buttons, and it’s beautiful - possibly her finest work - but he’d never wear it, couldn’t even if he wanted to, it’s so small. Sherlock glances at Grand-mère’s gnarled hands, tilts his head in puzzlement and she shakes her head.

"Years ago. I’ve had that waiting for you since you were a year old, the same as your mother’s before you," she says softly, and Sherlock frowns.

"I don’t understand," he says. "Mummy has a jumper like this?"

Grand-mère nods, a gentle smile on her face. “That your father wears,  _non_?” she asks, and Sherlock gives a slow nod at the thought of his father in a similarly thick, ribbed jumper - the only one he wears. He makes the connection, but it can’t—

"This isn’t for me."

Grand-mère shakes her head, her eyes sparkling in spite of her infirmity, and there, before the only person in the world with whom Sherlock can be himself, he bunches the jumper in his hands, closes his eyes and brings it to his nose, breathing in the scent of aftershave and Earl Grey, cheap shampoo and something… indefinable, that makes him sink into it again, and then again and again.

And when at last he opens his eyes, Grand-mère is looking up at him with a watery gaze. 

"It won’t be soon, love," she says sadly. "And it won’t be easy. But you’ll know. You’ll know him, and you’ll know when."

Sherlock takes her hand again, the tears he’s been keeping at bay let loose at last.

“ _Grand-mère_ ,” he whispers hoarsely.

“ _Ma petite bichette_ ,” she says, closing her eyes.


End file.
